I Dwell In Possibility
by liesmyth
Summary: Miscellaneous CS one-shots, every chapter a different AU. Part seven, Anthem - the Supernatural fusion where Emma is a hunter and Killian used to be an angel. Yeah, I don't even know. [COMPLETE]
1. Reason Nor Rhyme (Enchanted Forest)

**I Dwell in Possibilty **

**Hey there!** I promise I'll do my absolute best to stick to the schedule and post a drabble every day. At the end of the week, I'll pick a drabble to expand into a full AU story – but I have absolutely no idea which one to choose, so feel free to suggest your favourite either via review or tumblr ask.

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**1\. Neither reason nor rhyme**

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They met in a seedy tavern in a small town just like any other, their eyes finding each other above the noises and the crowd, and his inviting smile was enough for Emma to decide that, damn it, she had a right to have fun every once in a while.

And so she went to him, ignoring Leroy's sighs and Graham's inquisitive looks and David's exasperated ones, promising that no, she wouldn't be out late – not that they would know anyway; those men all slept like rocks – and yes, she remembered that they had an important client to meet in the morning.

("Client," Ruby had told her once. "I like that word. It makes you sound so… respectable."

It was funny because it wasn't true; and that was why Emma liked the word so much.)

He'd been waiting for her at his table in the corner, smirk still firm in place, a spark of warmth in those impossible blue eyes, a bottle of rum already ordered for the two of them to share. She'd found that cocky, just the way she liked it; and if it'd seemed strange, that a man so refined in that elegant coat would enjoy a pirate's drink, well, Emma's tastes were hardly usual either. He'd been charming too, with his pointless small talk and firm resolve to keep his gaze firmly trailed to her face – and her face only. Emma had thought he would make an excellent distraction, and an excellent memory; and how wrong she'd been.

("What brings you to… this lovely little place?" he'd asked her, and Emma had to laugh; because rum or not the disdain in his voice made it clear that he was so out of place in that tavern. There was a story there, she'd known it even then; but nothing she'd cared to know about – and so Emma had just smiled and leaned in and felt the barest hint of satisfaction when his eyes flickered to her cleavage as she moved. "You see, that's not really what I'm here for."

"Then tell me, love," he'd said – and damn it, she was usually one to hate all those stupid patronizing pet names, but it sounded so _good_ sliding from his tongue. "What _are_ you really here for?"

Well, that one had been easy.)

She'd told him to show her to his room, because he looked definitely like someone who would have a nice, comfy room in the town's best inn; and it'd been so long since she'd last enjoyed the comforts of a feather bed. He'd frowned instead, just for a moment, and that should have been her first hint – but, by then, she'd been too gone to care, inebriated by rum and lust and the way the cold night air brushed under her skirts and she could only imagine how it would feel when he'd be the one to –

"I don't think we should," he'd said, and Emma had almost laughed, because he'd bought her drinks all night and now was telling how they _shouldn't_, and it wasn't usually the other way around with men? Or so she'd been told – it was never like that with her; Emma was always the hunter and never the prey.

(Except when she was.)

He'd said it was rash and she would regret it and Emma had laughed in his face and promised him, _no feelings_. "Just ships passing in the night."

(Never to meet again, she'd thought then.)

And she'd fallen asleep in a feather bed that night, in a tangle of sweat and sheets and limbs, tired and sated and completely drained; only to wake up in an empty bed in the golden lights of the morning, her head pounding, alcohol on her breath, and incredibly, irretrievably _late_.

"Oh, _hell_."

"What's that, love?" she'd heard him call from somewhere around her, making her jump in surprise. "Does your head hurt?"

(And the bastard had been looking _serious_ and _concerned_, not even a hint of teasing. Not to mention impeccably dressed , reading some of book at a desk in the corner, looking perfectly composed. No person should look so well adjusted so early in the morning.)

She'd dressed quickly, noticing how her dress had been folded neatly and laid on a nearby chair - Emma had never quite gotten the point of morning-after-modesty anyway. "No, it's just," oh, she so wished she'd time to do anything more than comb her hair with her fingers. "I've got an appointment this morning, I think I'm late."

_Damn_, David had been right.

"Well," he'd begun, the _arrogant_ bastard. "No, you're not."

(She should have known.)

Thankfully, neither David nor Graham where downstairs when she arrived – and she _so_ should have known; the inn where he was staying _was_ their meeting place, after all – and _he_ joined her shortly after, even had the gall to shrug when Emma glared at him.

"You did say no feelings, _Emma_," he reminded her, as if it that was possible _now_ that they were working together –and _hell_, there was a reason why she'd never given him her name. Most of her contacts and clients only knew her as _Swan_, but whoever had recommended her clearly given out more information than necessary. Damn.

"Well, Your Highness," she'd nodded at him, still glaring –

(Prince Charles, of the Eastern Lands, even if he'd introduced himself as Killian, sailor and gambler.)

\- "I do hope you're aware," Emma gave him her best smile. "Keep pulling this shit, and you're going to have to pay double."

He only grinned, again – and he still managed to look so damn attractive, no matter what. "Best deal I've ever done."

(The next morning, the first day of their… collaboration, Emma didn't even look at him; and neither she did the day after, or the one after that. It was only on the tenth morning that she returned his continuous glances, and asked him, _what'd you did that for?_)

The boys were both surprised to see her when they arrived, but Emma could see the relief in David's eyes that she hadn't been late, for once, and made up a story about how she'd came in early because she couldn't sleep. Next to her, Killian – Charles, she had to remember, his name was Charles – didn't even blink an eye at their banter, before calmly speaking up what it had to be the most foolish idea Emma had ever heard.

"I need you," he began, "to help me break into the Dark One's castle.

(_What'd you did that for?_ she asked, not quite managing to hide the hurt in her voice – yes, she'd promised no feelings, but he'd _lied_ to her. She shouldn't have cared, but still she did.)

"That's insane," David said – bless him, always the voice of reason; and the stupid prince just nodded.

"Then is exactly the kind of job you do, isn't it?"

He told them a story about a deal made so many generations ago, a family curse and firstborn sons, and how he had a brother who would marry soon for matter of state, condemning whatever child he might have to live under the weight of the Dark One's shadow – until the day the child would be taken away.

"And that is why you came to us," Emma realized, and he only smiled.

"Plausible deniability and all that," Charles nodded. "My brother knows nothing about it, and never will until we return."

Until, not if. Emma liked his confidence – almost as much as she'd liked his cocky smile and the way he'd called her _love_ – and the plan was just crazy enough that it might just work. After all, who would ever go after _the Dark One_?

And that must have also been why he'd come to her, and not to… more celebrated thieves such as Robin Hood. Despite everything, she was glad he had.

("I didn't mean to," he answered, eventually. "I only wanted to see… what kind of person you were, you and your friends; and then you were just – so beautiful."

And what could she say to that?)

Break in, steal a dagger, get out. "I know where he keeps it," Killian – she couldn't bring herself to think about him in any other way – assured. "I once knew…" he paused then, just slightly. "I knew someone, who told me where the Dark One keeps his treasures. Once we're in, it'll be easy."

(It wasn't.

It was one hell of a job, the hardest, most dangerous thing Emma had ever done, but she never even entertained the idea of giving up. Not even after… Graham, not even after the night she cried herself to sleep in Killian's arms; she just woke up the next morning, and went on. Now it was personal.)

They left town that very evening.

("You can call me Killian, you know," he told her after she'd stuttered the wrong name and apologized for it for what had to be hundredth time. "I prefer it anyways. It's what my brother calls me."

"Good," Emma said. "You still can't call me _love_."

But he did it anyway.)

They let town that very evening, and Emma didn't speak to Killian for ten days, until the morning she did.

("You should marry me," he told her on the day they finally, finally reached the Dark One's castle, just hour before they were either going to get what they wanted – or die. His kisses tasted of desperation, and Emma had forced herself to laugh in self-deprecation.

"Your life's not for me," she forced out, to hide how much she'd found herself _liking_ the idea. "My life… my life is different."

Her life was a constant walk on the edge of danger, on the wrong side of the law more often than not, it was risk and Graham and Ruby back home and David and Snow's newborn child she'd yet to meet – but later, much later, after everything was said and done, after she'd lost a friend and he'd lost a hand and they'd still managed to get out of it alive –

Then he asked again.

And maybe, just maybe, she might have said yes.)

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**Note:** you can see the complete schedule at my tumblr (username **justoldlights**) under tag _cs au week_. I'm actually still looking for an idea for Day Three (modern AU) so prompt away.  
This drabble's title came from Mumford &amp; Sons' _Roll away your stone_; again, reviews are love.


	2. As It Was Made To Be (Future Fic)

**I Dwell In Possibility**

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**Hullo.** This… got weird. Is very much _Meh_. Like, I dunno exactly what happen, but I have lots of feels about Emma's missing year, and messing with memories in general, and so my fluffy piece turned into… this; and I'm not sure how or why, but I'll keep it. Title from Mumford &amp; Sons' _Sigh No More_.

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**2\. As it was made to be**

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_there is a design, an alignment, a cry of my heart to see  
the beauty of love, as it was made to be_

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"How do you even have all this rubbish, Swan?" Emma hears him ask from the bedroom, and she would really, really love to give him a piece of her mind, another round of the playful banter they'd had going on basically since the day they met. She would really love to make a joke, or roll her eyes, or anything, really – but, Emma's just realized, she has absolutely no freaking idea of how does she even have all that stuff. Rubbish. Whatever the hell he calls it – she has _no idea_ of how it came in her possession, her mind completely blank.

And it's freaking her out.

"Swan, is everything –" there's a sound of steps coming into the kitchen, and then two hands brushing both sides of her face, in a familiar touch she's come to know so well in the last few days. The last few days, and the Zelena whirlwind, and the year before that, _and then_ –

"Emma." She hears, from so far away. "Emma, what is it?"

_Horrible_, that's what it is. Have her parents gone through the same thing, when the first curse broke? Had Gold, her first day in Storybrooke? Had Ruby, and Jefferson, and Ashely?

Had Graham, after she kissed him?

Had _Henry_?

When she opens her eyes, she's looking straight into Killian's blue, worried gaze. "I'm…" remembering. Panicking. Worried about my son. "I'm fine," she says, even if she's not fine at all, but it's alright because he gets her anyway.

"Help me with the dishes?" she offers, eventually; and he nods and starts wrapping every single porcelain plate (and seriously _how_ did she get all this, and _when_?) neatly with its paper towels, and then put it gently into the cardboard box. A somewhat unusual way to spend a second date, but surely beats the time-traveling, _Back to the Future_ mess that was their first date; and one good thing about having a consummate sailor as maybe-boyfriend is the _amazing_ packing technique.

So, maybe she's rambling to herself, a little.

Still better than remembering – or, in her case, _not_ remembering. Not remembering how she woke up one day in a brand house she'd moved into after the Boston fire that never happened, bought with insurance money she'd never had, full of furniture she'd never picked and stale books she'd never read. How Regina even _managed_ it, Emma has no idea.

They finish packing up the house in comfortable silence – and, _god_, he doesn't try to force her to talk, her _gets_ her, and Emma had forgotten how wonderful that could feel – and wait for the removal truck that will carry all of her boxes to an address in Redwood Maine, the quaint town just a few miles outside Storybrooke, and a place Emma thinks must be as cursed as their own quaint little town, because there's no way in hell that Mike Davies the wholesaler still hasn't realized that's he's been selling pork legs to Red Riding Hood and her grandmother for years.

Or maybe he just forgot.

Damn how she hates that stupid word.

They load the car with everything else – things that fit inside, none of the stupid plates; mostly clothes (some of them she bought for herself, some she didn't) and Henry's school stuff, and a few DVDs and books (some Emma remember, some she doesn't) and when they're done is the middle of the afternoon, too late to leave, too early to do anything else.

Somehow, they end up in Central Park, and it's not a coincidence when they sit down on the same bench she handcuffed him to, a month or so ago – and still it feels like a lifetime. Killian lets out an hearty laugh when he realizes where they are, and makes an elaborate show of looking around 'looking for your lawkeeper friends,' he says.

"They probably wouldn't recognize you," Emma tells him, even though it's not completely true. At her insistence, he traded in the vest for a Henley shirt and left the heavy coat in the car, but Killian is still Killian, down to the earring and leather pants and swaggering walk, and Emma amuses herself with the thought of just _how the hell_ she'd be supposed to explain him if they ran into someone who knew her.

Someone who knew her when she was dating Walsh.

"Are you ever going to tell me what is it?" he asks at one point, and Emma realizes that maybe, just maybe, she's been sighing a little too deeply.

"Nothing's wr –" she starts saying, automatically, before she realizes just whom she's talking to – probably the only person in her life she can actually tell what the hell is going on, and maybe – _just maybe_ – she'll feel better about, in the end. They're so very new and so very fragile; but it was only four weeks ago, in that very spot, that he told her to _take a leap of faith_, and so she does.

"When I first got to Storybrooke," she begins, and he looks so surprised that she's actually opening up that Emma's torn between feeling moved at his reaction and actually shitty that she waited so long.

"Henry kept talking about this curse, and how no one aged but him, and I didn't believe because," Emma had to pause there, looking for the right words. It feels so strange to say it out loud, after she's been running away from magic curses and all the package for _so long_. "Because, I thought that was impossible. I mean, how couldn't people notice that they weren't aging?"

"And Henry said they just _forgot_."

They just forgot; Emma remembered asking her mother – Miss Blanchard, the fifth grade teacher – just how long Regina'd been major, just how long John Doe had been in that coma, how long that clock had been broken. And she hadn't known, none of them had; and now she knows exactly how that _feels_, and it's horrible.

"And I think I might be freaking out," she continues._ Understatement of the century_. "Because I'm supposed to be this all-mighty Saviour, and I just got cursed just like everyone else, and there are things in my house that I didn't buy and just –" she has to pause again, take a breath. "It just _sucks_."

Killian – the idiot, the bastard, the stupid _pirate_ – only raises an eyebrow at her. "And?" he asks; but he's got his good arm swung across her shoulders, tightening. "You are feeling bad… because you are feeling bad that the queen messed with your mind?"

"Pretty much?" Emma offers. He looks at her and that horrible crushing weight in her chest just… deflates, like she was a child who'd just found out that the horrible monster under her bed was only an oddly-shaped piece of cloth and nothing more. "I tried not to think about…. magic," she manages to add, with only the minimum wince at the word._ Making progresses here, Emma, talking about magic with your brand new pirate boyfriend in Central Park_. "And then you asked me where I got my stuff, and I had no idea, and I just… lost control for a minute."

And Killian of all people knew everything that there was to know about Emma and control.

They remain like that, side by side, as the sun goes down and the sky turns purple and it's definitely time to go ("because, Central Park and night, that's just asking for trouble," she tells him, and he grins back at her) and maybe find someplace more interesting to be – because this is the City That Never Sleeps, after all, and they got an entire night ahead.

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**Note:** yeah, as I said, weird. I just think that anything that interferes with memory is creepy as hell and can't help but overanalyse it, and I think Emma's been such a tightly-wound spring, she's _loooong_ overdue for a minor breakdown.  
BTW, I'm still desperately looking for a Modern AU idea/prompt (the coffee shop one has been done, but thanks anyway)… pretty please?


	3. These Days of Dust (Cursed Emma)

**I Dwell in Possibility**

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**Hi.** So, there was no day 3 because I went to a concert and got completely smashed, and no day 4 because I was recovering. Sorry, not sorry – I love summer rock festivals SO MUCH. Anyway, this is day 4; I'll post 5 hopefully later today, and 3 soon enough.  
This one-shot was inspired by some post 3A speculations I over at the TWP forums (RIP). Let's just assume that Zelena didn't happen until muuuuch later, and Hook had no memory potion to jog back Emma's memories. Title from Mumford &amp; Sons, as usual.

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**4\. ****These days of dust**

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_well I came home, like a stone;  
and I fell heavy into your arms  
__these days of dust, which we've known,  
will blow away with this new sun_

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Emma met Killian Jones about ten minutes after breaking up with her boyfriend and, had she been anyone else, she might have called it fate - but she was just plain old Emma Swan, bail bondsperson, single mom and former juvenile offender, and way too jaded to believe in anything but the harsh reality.

_The weird thing about dating somebody_, Emma had read once somewhere, _is that you are either going to marry that person, or break up_. She couldn't remember exactly where the quote was from – it must have been some fortune cookie, or a chocolate box, or something equally cheesy and stereotypical – but she'd always found it… threatening, somehow. Like, _no pressure, girl, all your relationships are doomed before they start. Enjoy your stupid chocolate._

Unfortunately it seemed like Walsh had read the same stupid quote, the idiot – and he decided to make a spectacle of it, the way he'd gone about it, that very public proposal in the crowded restaurant with the smirking waiter and everyone's eyes on them. Nope, no pressure. As if he'd never known her at all – and how could she ever want to tie herself to someone who'd never understood her in the first place?

No forever and always, for Emma Swan. No happily ever after; nothing at all.

And that was how Emma had found herself walking home alone at ten on a Tuesday night, wanting nothing more than to take off that stupid dress and have a long, hot bath and –

running and stumbling as the elevator's doors closed, and swearing under her breath as she collided with… someone. An amused chuckle, a hard chest, strong arms wrapped around her, steadying her and – Emma felt something inside her tighten – the blues pair of eyes she'd ever seen. "Sorry," she heard herself say and, hell, was she blushing? She couldn't remember the last time she'd blushed. "Bad day. Very bad day."

And that was how Emma Swan met Killian Jones for the first time – only it wasn't the first time, not by a long shot.

* * *

They didn't talk much that first night; in fact, she didn't even give him her name.

He didn't say anything at first, only _looked_ at her – and his whole face seemed to light up, a soft smile on his lips, and Emma found herself smiling back, because how could she not? It seemed to go on forever, their... whatever it was, she encased in his arms and he staring at her as if she were the most precious thing in the world; and it felt so good, it was wonderful.

And then the elevator's doors shut with a whiz behind her, and Emma remembered that she was, in fact, locked in a sort of hug with a complete stranger – a complete, gorgeous stranger – and she'd just broken up with Walsh, and she really, really needed that hot bath now.

"Right," she cleared her throat. "I think… you can let me go, now."

He winced and took a step back like she'd burned him, and when he held out one hand for her to shake Emma noticed that he was wearing leather gloves that went so nicely with his leather jacket, and yet there was something so intrinsically _wrong _about his clothes – about him - but she had no idea what it was.

And so she took his hand – Killian Jones, he'd said, and shook it with a smile that said _thanks, but no thanks,_ and she only answered. "Nice to meet you. I'm seventh floor, so if you don't mind…"

He'd frowned and paused and pressed the button with the same comical accuracy a child would use, and Emma had to turn away to physically bring herself to _stop staring_, because she had enough men problems to deal with already – and it was only when the door opened again and Emma heard his footsteps following hers that she met his eyes again.

"Just moved next door, love," Jones told her, and _winked_ and –

bad, _bad_ news.

* * *

Henry pouted about Walsh and how _he'd have been good for you_ like only a teenager could – only he wasn't a teenager yet, just an annoyingly precocious kid; and Walsh himself called her not sounding heartbroken at all, only weirdly concerned about her moving away from New York for some reason – and completely disappearing from the face of the Earth once Emma had assured him for the hundredth time that no, she had no intention to move, and why would he think that anyway?

He hung up and never called back, and when she showed up at his place with the customary post-breakup box the apartment was spotless and the lady next door told her Walsh had left two weeks before – and _good riddance_, Emma thought to herself. She threw the box in the trash feeling strangely light, climbing the stairs up to her door two at the time because she was too lazy to go to the gym, and seven floors was on hell of an awesome workout when she wasn't wearing heels.

"Emma Swan," the voice halted her on the landing halfway to her door, sounding smug and way to self-satisfied and yet somehow almost reverent – the way someone would say, _Jesus _or _cheesecake_ or _one_ _million dollars_.

She turned and surely enough there he was – still looking insanely hot, all tight pants and scruff and blue eyes, the stranger she'd done her best to forget.

"What?"

"That's your name," he said, matter-of-factly. "I have to admit, it's lovely."

Emma didn't ask how he'd known, because her name was on the plaque next to the building's intercom, and almost rolled her eyes at that – but she couldn't contain the smile tugging at her lips, because that was new, and _lovely_ had always been one of her favourite words.

She didn't ask how he'd known her name, but he told her anyway, something about Henry's pathological need to know everything and everyone – even strange new neighbors he knew _nothing_ about.

"Oh, don't be mad at him, Swan," he laughed. "He's a bright child."

Emma scoffed. "That's for sure." And then she felt a flash of – something; but it was gone as soon as it'd started.

"What did you just call me?" she asked, and did her voice really sound so... breathless?"

"Swan," he repeated, looking more pleased than any man had right to be. "I told you, it's lovely. It's almost –"

"Please don't say what I think you're going to say," Emma cut in, incredulous. Who even said that, outside of romance novels and sappy movies? "Seriously, _don't_."

"I was going to say, it's almost time for me to head out," Jones grinned, and Emma found herself blushing furiously, even though he was lying, and she knew it. "But if you'd rather me to stay, love, you only have to say it."

She _did_ give him an eye roll this time, because seriously, and he brought one hand to his chest in a melodramatic sigh. "No? Then I guess it shall be for another time."

"I'll be waiting for you, Swan," he called out as he left; and she didn't know how true that was.

* * *

That was the night she first dreamed of him, of stolen kisses that tasted of despair, of hot humid air clinging to her hair and wind twirling around them and, _you know, you never forget your first_.

And the next time they met Emma felt as if his eyes were staring right into her soul, and she went to sleep with her cheeks wet with tears and a hole in her chest she could not explain.

* * *

The first time Emma Swan went on a date with Killian Jones was almost May, a calm, quiet evening of gentle breeze and purple skies. He took her to a small, run-down place that made the best grilled cheese Emma had ever tasted, and then they just walked around aimlessly, joking and talking and making up stories for the people they met on the streets.

"That woman over there," Emma decided. "Is a pianist. I mean, look at that _blouse_. She's married, obviously, but I'm sure she's sleeping with one of her piano students on the side."

"Alright," he nodded. "How about that man with the green shirt?"

"Math teacher," she said, flatly. "Duh, Jones. He clearly looks like he enjoys torturing children."

"Fair enough." His hold on her hand tightened and she squeezed back, content. It was.. nice, Emma decided, nicer than pretty much everything she could remember in forever. Going on holiday with Henry in Florida three years ago had been nice, but stressing as hell. Dating Walsh had been nice, too, but she'd always felt pressured, somehow, in being the perfect girlfriend she knew she could never be, because he was such a _nice_ man, and would run away soon enough if she didn't act like he'd expected – and then she'd been the one to run away, and now she was _good_, and life was almost perfect.

She kissed him then, only a light touch at first, experimentally, a soft brush of lips against lips, closing her eyes to capture every brief moment; and then his hand were on her, against the small of her back, one hand cradling her head, fingers tangled in her hair as he leaned in closer, his mouth trailing feathery touches against her cheeks and forehead until he found her lips again, and she heard him whisper something that could've been her name, the way a man dying of thirst would call for water in the middle of a desert.

And, for a moment, there was no one in the world but the two of them.

Once it was all over – all too soon, some corner of Emma's mind muttered, disappointed – she opened her eyes and found himself face to face with a content smile and an expectant look. He looked like a puppy anticipating a treat, she decided, amused, and also downright adorable. "What?" Emma laughed.

His face fell, for a moment, but it was all over so quickly that she wondered if she'd imagined. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."

* * *

But it was clear that there _was_ something; if only Emma had known what. Had the circumstances been any different, she would have blamed herself, wondering what she was doing wrong, if she'd managed to drive away yet another person; but it was clear this could never be the case with Jones. Even Emma had to acknowledge that he wasn't likely to be driven away by anything she did – not now, or ever; and the resulting feeling was so intense, it almost scared her. It wasn't anything he said, or did – the man wasn't clingy, didn't expect anything more than she was ready to give.

It was the way he seemed to know her so well, with the uncanny understanding that came from focus and attention, and the simple idea of having someone so interested in her – it was unlike anything else she'd felt before. He remembered to remember each and every one of her favorite movies, and exactly how much ham she put in her omelets, and looked at her like she was the sun in the sky, with such _adoration_; and she'd never felt more powerful in her life.

(_When I win your heart, Emma_… she remembered, words coming from nowhere.)

And yet… he looked like he was waiting for something to happen, remembering Emma of herself when she'd been younger, after Neal – when she lived on the edge of a panic attack expecting that CPS would show up at her door to take Henry way from her, and everything would go wrong. She'd been desperate back then; and that was how Killian looked, day after day, even as he held her hand under the table or showed Henry how to solve some particularly nasty equation. "It's not that hard, lad, see?" he would say, and give out a grin, looking the whole time like a castaway drowning at sea.

They'd been dating almost three whole months the first time she invited him to stay the night, because he persisted in treating her like she was some sort of holy relic made of glass, and sometimes a girl had to take initiative – and she knew he wanted her, it would've been obvious even to a blind man, and yet.

And yet he couldn't hide the flash of nervousness in his eyes, the one Emma assumed had to have something to do with the incident he'd lost his hand in, the one he never talked about –

and yet there was something missing, even as he traced the contours of her body with lips and fingers and tongue, and kissed her eyelids and her neck and chest and murmured her name like a prayer, and even as she came with a shudder and a strangled cry – she couldn't shake the feeling that something was horribly, terribly wrong.

He wasn't there when she woke up in the morning, but Emma could hear him moving around in the kitchen, and if she kept her eyes closed and she could pretend that everything was fine.

"I made you breakfast," Killian told her when she made it into the kitchen, and Emma had to suppress a smile at the sight because she had Henry had spent weeks trying to teach him how to use an electric stove, but the end result had been _so_ worth it.

"Here," he added, holding out a mug and studying her intently – and whatever he must have seen was exactly what he'd expected, because his resigned smile didn't quite reach his eyes. He kissed her when she leaned in, deep and desperate, as if she were about to slip away from one moment to the next.

"I –" Emma started, but she hadn't said _I love you_ to anyone except Henry in more than a decade, and she wasn't quite sure they were there yet. "Thanks," she concluded instead, as lame as it was, trying to convey all the gratitude and the affection she felt into the world. "Thank you so much."

"For breakfast?" he raised an eyebrow, flashing her an empty grin. "You're welcome."

* * *

"If anything was wrong," Emma asked him out of the blue one day. "You'd tell me, right?"

"Nothing is wrong," he said. _Lie, lie, lie._ It was so clear that something _was_ – but Emma had no basis for comparison, not really. She had known Killian for less than two months before they started dating, but he'd seemed… more hopeful, somewhat. Anticipating something that never came.

_Maybe's the incident_. She had no idea of the person Killian Jones had been before he'd moved to New York without a hand and with what he'd defined a generous settlement. He hadn't shared much about his past, and it was fine because neither had Emma; but it was clear that whatever plagued him had to be more recent than the ghost of Neal was. He'd told her bit and pieces about fighting in the Navy and a dead brother, but nothing more than that, and she hadn't pried. But he hadn't been so bad, in the beginning.

_Maybe it's us_, she thought – and when had she become the stable part of the relationship?

Or in any relationship at all, really. Emma Swan, in a relationship. When had that happened? Not with Walsh, surely; she hadn't really been able to imagine a future with him. To imagine a future without Killian, though –

She'd stopped keeping counts of the months at six but he still did, bringing her funnily-shaped cupcakes every month and bouquets of bright colored flowers (roses are boring, she'd said; and he'd agreed), and Emma found herself wondering if he would keep that up even after they'd passed the one year mark, and the thought made her strangely giddy – more than she could remember feeling in too long.

They were almost there (eleven months, but she wasn't counting, she really _wasn't_) the night Henry proposed a movie night, like he'd been doing for months since he'd found out that Killian had neither cable television nor a DVD player, not to mention a computer, and they all ended up watching _The Princess Bride_.

"Ah, so _this_ is it." Killian said the moment the movie began, with a laugh that was almost a snort, and Emma felt oddly left out, as if it was some kind of in-joke she was supposed to get – but didn't.

"What is it?" she asked, and Killian only laughed louder, whatever melancholy always surrounded him completely forgotten as he slung one arm across her waist and laid his head on her shoulder, breath barely brushing her ear.

"Someone told me I should watch this," he explained. "I never really got a chance."

That night they fell asleep on the couch, shoulder against shoulder, and Emma dreamed that she was a princess and Killian the pirate who loved her from a distance but never would admit to it because –

there was more to it, Emma knew; but dawn broke and when she woke up the dream was gone.

* * *

On their one year anniversary (not that she was the one keeping count; only Killian did that) Emma had cleared her schedule, booked an appointment with her hairdresser, and made a dinner reservation somewhere nice – nowhere like the place she'd gone on her last, disastrous date with Walsh, thankyouverymuch. There was no bail-skipper to catch, not today – the only thing she had to do was to make Henry lunch and send him off to his friend's house, wait for Killian to show up from whatever odd job he was doing, put together some pretty outfit and enjoy the day.

But when she got home in the early afternoon her considerate, punctual, perfect boyfriend was nowhere to be seen.

"Hey, Henry," she asked, matter-of-factly. There was nothing wrong; there couldn't be. Not now, not when everything had been going so well. Not _again_. "Do you know where Killian is?"

Henry gave her A Look – for all that Emma loved the kid, loved how smart and wonderful he was, sometimes he was _way_ to perceptive for his own good. "At his place," he said, "I… I don't think he's feeling too well."

_Not too well_, Emma decided, had to be the understatement of the century.

She found Killian in his barely-used bedroom in the barren apartment they spent so little time in, pausing to look at the walls and the empty shelves, noticing for the first time how everything looked just as he had when he'd first arrived. Killian had moved in with two bags and noting more, just as Emma and Henry had when they'd arrived in town from Boston, but their place had never felt this… cold.

"Killian," she called out. "Are you alright?"

In the darkness, she could make up his form laid out on the bed, laying on his back, arms crossed behind his neck. "Just wonderful, love," he said, and Emma almost recoiled at the sheer _loathing_ in his voice. "Never been better."

He sounded sour and harsh; more than anything, he sounded _drunk_.

That by itself was worrying; the stupid man could hold his alcohol better than anyone Emma had ever met. Whatever had happened, it had to be deliberate.

"Killian, was is it?" She found the bed, fumbling in the dark, and let herself fall down next to him. His hand was cold when she found it, and he winced at the contact.

"Don't touch me," he said. "Please."

She ignored him. "What have you done to yourself?"

He laughed a bitter laugh. "What does it look like, Swan? I'm being miserable."

God, she thought, it was a wonder she'd never had to deal with _this_ side of Killian before. He was worse than Henry had been at five, the time he'd had a crying fit at school because…. Because…

What had happened to Henry when he'd been five? She couldn't remember.

She couldn't remember, and could feel an headache coming up. Right – better to focus on other things; namely, the problem at hand.

"Did anything happen?" she asked, the traitorous thoughts once again making way through her mind. "Is… is it my fault? Did I do anything wrong?"

"Oh, Swan," he whispered, longingly, bringing that cold hand up to cup her face. "Love, you could never do anything wrong."

"Then –" _what is it_, she wanted to ask; but he stopped her before she could, trailing his fingers on her cheek, tracing her mouth.

"I love you," he whispered against her mouth, as if it was some terrible secret. "I love you so much, you know. So much it hurts."

And what could she say to that? Emma had never been the greatest at showing feelings – and he knew it; and that was why he'd held his own declaration for so long.

"But you know that, do you?" he sounded broken. "And nothing happened, Emma, and I've got everything I've always wanted, but I hoped…"

"What?" she asked, moving in closer, wishing they could stay like that forever. _Everything I've ever wanted_ – how many years had she spent wishing she could find someone who would put her first? _You're everything I've ever wanted, too_; she wanted to say, but she couldn't. "What did you hope?"

"Doesn't matter," he said. "I've got you, now, don't I?"

"Yes," she whispered back, hoping she could feel the fervor in her voice as she'd had in his. "Yes, you've got me."

"Wonderful," she felt him nod, and this time it sounded like he actually meant it. "Are we still going to that place tonight?"

She smiled. "I don't know, are we? You tell me."

"Aye," he said. "Just… I need to sleep some, first."

"That's fine." Emma moved in closer, swinging one leg across his, wrapping one arm around his shoulders. "I'll stay here with you."

* * *

They remained like that for hours, wrapped in silence and shadows as the day outside turned to dusk. Emma found herself dozing, too, fluttering in and out of consciousness, dreaming of faraway places she'd never seen before and great adventures she'd never had – and Killian; Killian was in all of them.

She woke up sometime in the late afternoon, sunset tracing strips of golden light through the shutters, one thin sliver going across Killian's face, through his cheek and lips and neck, capturing her gaze like a magnet. He was beautiful, Emma noticed, not for the first time; not in a pure aesthetical way, but in the way people become to the eyes of those who love them, when every feature is absolute beauty and every tiny flaw becomes perfection.

_In the eyes of those who love them_. Did she love him? Emma had no idea. Did she even remember what love was, how it felt like, after so long? There was no ache when they were apart, no butterflies in her stomach when they talked, no intense need to do _everything_ together like every self-respecting romantic comedy taught… but she felt better when she was with him, powerful and safe and loved, and could no longer imagine how life would be without Killian's steady presence right behind her, without his dry jokes and funny quirks and the way he smiled at her whenever they eyes met.

_So, maybe I do_. Maybe.

There was no Earth-shattering revelation at that; the sky didn't open and life continued as normal – in fact, Killian didn't even wake up. But she _knew_ it now, finally at peace with herself; and it was _good_.

_You're everything I've ever wanted_, he'd told her, and Emma felt herself well with emotion at the memory. That someone could feel something so – _absolute_, for her…

"Hey," she found herself whispering against Killian's ear, shaking him awake, snuggling in closer against her chest. It didn't feel right, somehow, that he was asleep while she was having such… life-altering realization. "Wake up."

He did, eventually; smiling in that way he always did whenever her face was the first thing he woke up to. He raised one eyebrow at her obvious glee, all the previous gloom forgotten. "Good morning," he said.

"Afternoon," Emma corrected. "Well, evening. I've got to tell you something."

He was still half-asleep, she could see it; but nevertheless amused at her enthusiasm. "What is it?" he asked.

"You," she said, trying so _desperately_ to infuse her voice with everything she felt, to make him understand her emotion as he had her. "You, Jones, are the best thing that ever happened to me."

And then she kissed him.

And then, only then, she remembered.

* * *

It didn't hurt, not quite, but it was… unpleasant, like if a wall had broken somewhere in her mind – a dam, and now she was swimming in memories. Hers, not hers, things that happened and things that had been changed and dreams that had been memories all along. Emma hissed, bringing one hand to her head, feeling as if the whole world were spinning.

The whole world; but she was safe, nested in the warm bed that smelled like him and –

_and I'm in love with Hook_, she thought to herself; because that was what it had to be, true love with a capital T and a capital L, the kind of fairy tale love that breaks curses and wakes up sleeping princesses.

(_when I win your heart, Emma; and I _will_ win it…_)

(and he'd been right, the smug, handsome _bastard_)

"Emma," he was calling her, shaking her shoulder, sounding more worried than she'd ever heard him. "Emma, love, what is it?"

_My life is a lie_. But, oh, what a beautiful lie it had been, in no small part thanks to the man lying next to her.

But…. The portals were closed, she remembered. _If the portals were closed, just how is he here?_ And why, Emma thought, remembering the desperate sense of urgency she'd gotten from him earlier. He'd _needed_ her to remember, not because – not _only_ because he… loved her. But because there was _something_ going on.

_That's great_, she thought, groaning to herself.

"Emma," she heard him repeat once again, "you're scaring me."

"Wait," Emma whispered, eyes still closed. "I'm remembering."

It took barely a moment for the meaning to sink in; she felt him stiffen against her, the warm embrace turning into an awkward lock.

"Right," he said, with that self-deprecating tone that was _so_ Hook, the one she hadn't heard in so long, the one that said that he knew he wasn't good enough and he didn't need anyone else to point it out to him. "Better late than never, I suppose," he made to move away, but Emma stopped him, grasping his good arm with one hand.

"Don't be an idiot," she told him, eyes snapping open. "Stay."

"Really?" he asked – and it was _overwhelming_ just what she could hear in his voice, affection and disbelief and _hope_ and –

"Yes, really," she found herself smiling at him and he smiled back, still incredulous, and how on earth hadn't she remembered anything before? "We're supposed to go out, remember?" she reminded him. "_And_ I got an haircut especially for today, even though I'm pretty sure it's ruined now." She kept talking like nothing was wrong, trying to navigate the mess that were her memories. _Henry_; she'd given Henry away when she could've kept him – but she couldn't have, could she? There was _no way_ she'd gotten him back after Phoenix if Regina's memories had been realistic… right?

Or maybe there was, and giving Henry away had been her greatest mistake, if only she'd been stronger –

"It's not," she heard Killian say, as if from far away.

"What?"

"Ruined," he said, as if he was reading her mind. "The haircut, and everything else. Nothing is ruined, love, it's just…."

"Messed up?" she asked, meeting his eyes, giving out a sigh. _Oh, Henry…_

"Messed up," he agreed; and that was when it her, the modern words sounding so out of place in his mouth – except they weren't, weren't they? She'd heard him talk like that for more than one year.

"Wait," Emma had to laugh, sitting up on the bed. "Wait. You've been living in New York fourteen months, acting all… modern, and no one figured it out?"

He looked up at her, a smirk on his lips. "I'll have you know, Swan, I'm quite proficient at… adapting, when the situation calls for it." Oh, of that she had no doubt. "And it turns out, gold is worth as much here as it does in the Enchanted Forest."

"You know," Emma began, casually. "You could really have used all this attitude earlier. You know, when you were a drunk mess."

She let herself fall down on the bed again, her lips finding his like they had so many times before – but _this time_, this time it was different; it was all of her, and all of him.

"I love you," she said, tasting the words on her tongue. She liked how they sounded. "I was about to tell you earlier, when… you know," she made a vague gesture toward her head. "But I love you. Really."

He didn't answer, just looked at her; _really_ looked at her, with such intensity Emma almost had took away – almost, but not quite – and then he took her hand, squeezing lightly. "I missed you," he said, eventually, playing with a lock of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. "This you. Perhaps it's selfish but –"

"No, it's not," Emma cut him off. It really wasn't. Lost girl Emma, who'd gone off the deep end and came back whole, was better than happy Emma with her fake plastic memories, and nice and comfortable as they could be. "I missed you too," she thought back to her dreams, how they'd never really made sense until now. "Even when you were sleeping right next to me, I missed you and didn't know what I was looking for."

But now they'd found each other, finally; and, whatever may come, Emma knew they'd be alright.

* * *

**Note**: so, I'm not usually a big fan of TLK as all-fixer, but this _is_ AU week, after all, so I guess it's fine? I'm actually happy with how this turned out – even if it got _disgustingly_ long. See ya later tonight (me hopes) for the actual day 5 post!


	4. In Sea And Shore (Canon Divergence)

**I Dwell In Possibility**

* * *

**Because** I Have Feels about this AU scenario. And now so do you.  
Title from Mumford &amp; Sons' (again!) _Sigh No More_; the complete verse goes '_One foot in sea, one on shore / __My heart was never pure / You know me_'.

* * *

**In sea and shore**

* * *

Emma hadn't meant for it to happen.

She really, really hadn't.

(_It wasn't as if she'd fantasized about it before, how it would feel. His tongue tracing hot trails on her neck, breath setting her skin on fire, her hands brushing against the cool leather of his vest, slipping beneath it, trailing patters on his chest as he held her flush against him.  
No, Emma hadn't thought about it at all_.)

And yet, when that moment had come, once she'd found herself alone with _him_ of all people, the ship completely silent around them, their breaths sweet and thick with rum –

and he'd leaned in to kiss her, so achingly familiar and yet so oddly different, and her fingers had tangled in his heavy coat, and she should have pushed him away; she _should_ have.

But she'd pulled him closer instead, and brought his lips to hers.

(_It had been so much different from that first kiss in Neverland, the one she most definitely didn't dream of at night. There'd been so much despair then, and fervor, and a strange sort of serenity, a tormented spirit finding its coveted peace; and it'd scared her to death_.)

But to _him_, she'd been nothing more than a passing fancy, if a pleasurable one, and he'd tugged at her hair and sucked at her lips with the intensity of passion and not of need – like she was a welcome body and not his shot at salvation, a craving of the flesh and not of the soul and –

And, really, that was everything Emma had ever wanted.

(_In Neverland, after their kiss, he'd kept stealing glances at her whenever he thought she wasn't looking; but Emma always was. He looked at her like he couldn't believe she was real, and it hurt like hell because – _

_Because she'd wanted someone, anyone, to look at her like that, once; and then it'd all gone to hell._)

He'd whispered filthy words against her pulse as he slid his hand between their bodies, and Emma had rolled her head back and thought, _good_, because it was simple and easy and everything she'd ever needed anyway –

and she told him to go _faster_ as he moved above her, losing herself in the slamming of flesh against flesh, clawing at his shoulders as his stubble burned against her neck, trying desperately not to think of the other man, the other him waiting for her return –

always waiting, forever waiting; he'd done a whole year of it and still hadn't run away yet.

And maybe now he would.

(_In her dreams there were long stares and lingering touches; lazy, sloppy kisses made for tasting and not to devour, quiet whispers and tangled fingers; and all the things she'd never known she could want._)

After, he'd rolled off her with that confident smirk she knew so well, brushed a lock of hair away from her shoulder and planted a lingering kiss at the corner of her mouth, of satisfaction and not of love, blue eyes finding her own.

"You're more than welcome to stay 'til morning, love," he told her, lazily, his meaning clear – _we should do it again,_ was what he'd really said; instead of _I never want you to leave_.

Simpler, easier.

Emma should have liked the sound of it better than she actually did.

She'd returned to the inn where they'd been staying maybe two hours later, keeping her footsteps light, thanking the universe that they'd gotten two rooms and trying not to think of the fact that Hook – _her_ Hook, not the one she'd just fucked like the sort of meaningless one night stands she used to have –

That man – Hook or Killian or whatever, she'd never cared much for names anyway – was definitely awake in the room next to her, waiting and pacing and guessing what she'd been up to; and probably guessing right.

They didn't talk about it the next morning. Emma made a point of washing up as much as she could, combing her hair neatly to fell on her shoulders to hide any mark she might have; and Hook made a point of _not_ looking at her – nowhere as much as he usually did, anyway – as if afraid of what he might see in her.

It was, Emma decided, damn awkward – like the sort of morning-after tentative friendship she'd always hated so much; only, there hadn't been a night before, not for the two of them.

It was Rumplestiltskin who pointed out the elephant in the room, sounding more delighted than he had any right to be. He talked about portals and wands and ball invitations, and suddenly there was smoke all around her, and an unfamiliar weight all around her. "That's a nice spot you've got there, dearie," he said, pointing at Emma's neck – and Hook's eyes darted to it, before he turned his head away, so fast Emma thought he might have hurt himself.

Rumplestiltskin took notice. "Why, Captain, not your doing?" he taunted. "I have to admit, I didn't expect it." Emma frowned at his words, and the wizard chuckled at her confusion. "Allow me," he offered, before conjuring a mirror that showed… her face, and, _oh_. There was no mistaking the purple bruises on her neck, from right below her ear all the wait down to her collarbone. Emma slammed one hand against it, feeling herself flush, and Rumplestiltskin chuckled. "Well, not fitting for a royal ball, don't you agree? Better cover that up."

And he snapped his fingers, and the marks were gone, and so was him; but Hook remained.

"Well," he began, keeping his eyes trailed to a point somewhere near her left shoulder. "Let's go in, shall we?"

She introduced herself as Princess Leia and he linked his arm to hers and taught her how to dance, and for a moment everything was alright –

until Emma remembered the _last_ time she'd been this close to him, _this_ version of him, when she'd kissed him and lost her magic because she could not bear the thought of him dying, not after everything.

"Do you –" she surprised herself with her forwardness. "Do you think we should talk about it?"

His good hand tightened around her fingers as he twirled her around. "I don't know, Swan," he said, much too lightly to be honest, "do _you_?"

She didn't know what to say – and then it was too late, and they never really got a chance until everything was right again except that it wasn't; and they found themselves trapped inside Rumplestiltskin's vault.

"Holy shit," Emma whispered, looking around. "He put us in a freaking oubliette."

"In a what?"

_Right_. Pirate, movie references. "A place where you put things you don't want," she explained. "Things you want to forget."

"But we can get out, Swan –" and, god, why did he _always_ had to sound so _trusting_? "All you need is magic."

Magic. Magic she'd lost, whatever Hook said. Magic she would never have back, magic she frankly didn't even _want_, because she'd gone almost thirty years without it and survived anyway.

Magic she now needed, desperately. "Believe me," and why, why wouldn't he? Couldn't he see that it really didn't work – it wasn't like she wanted to be stuck in Rumplestiltskin's magic caveau forever. "Believe me, if I could make it work, I would. You think I'm faking it?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, sounding bitter and broken all over again. "I think you can be quite good at lying to yourself, love."

And that, _okay_, maybe she was, but…. "What's this got to do with anything?"

"I think," he began, sitting down on one of the wooden chests, "it's about time we have a talk _about it_, as you said. Tell me," he leaned in, face resting on his hand. "Did I meet your expectations, Swan?" He sounded taunting, cruel, like he hadn't in forever – one hundred percent Hook the pirate, like…

Like, Emma realized, like the man she'd slept with; and she was shocked at how wrong it felt. _He_ wasn't supposed to sound like this, not anymore.

"That _wasn't_ you," she spat up, uncaring that she'd just confirmed what they'd been dancing around for two days. No more feigned ignorance, not now. That hadn't been _him_ – the Killian Jones in front of her – it was pretty much the _point_ of the whole thing.

He met her eyes, shaking his head. "Oh, but you see, that man _was_ me. He was every bit me," he continued, even if she wanted to tell him that no, he didn't _have_ to think that, because he was different now, and better, and… "He was me, before I met you. I bet you liked that."

She really hadn't. At least, not as much as she'd liked the feel of her hand in his as they'd danced, of his arms around her when he'd held her as she cried – but she'd liked the _other man_ as well; that dangerous, uncaring version of Hook with no space in his heart for anything but lust and revenge.

"All of the experience, none of the _feelings_," Killian drawled. "Am I right, love?"

But he was; and what was worse – he knew it.

"If you really wanted to scratch that itch," he continued, hurt and hurtful when she could only stand still and stare, paralyzed, "you could've just asked. I would've loved to help out a woman in need."

"Oh god," Emma cut in, "would you please stop being such an _ass_ about it?"

And suddenly his pretence of composure was gone; underneath it, he was _angry_. "So now it's my fault." He hissed, standing up again, pacing the room up and down. "Of course. I stood there, and waited and helped and hoped – and suddenly I _care_, and I'm not good enough. That's bloody _wonderful_."

He sat down again after that, and didn't say a word –

and neither did she; not for a long time.

"I'm sorry," she heard herself say – later, much later, once the stiff silence and her own loneliness had become too much to bear. Sorry for what, she precisely couldn't say; but she'd never felt the weight of regrets and wasted opportunities quite so much before. "I screwed up, didn't I?"

Like she always did.

"No, you didn't," he answered, sounding strangely hesitant. "I should apologize too, for…" Emma felt in move closer, felt the comfortable heat of his body barely inches away from hers. "It wasn't my place to say those things."

Emma almost snorted. It was very much his place, when they were…. _whatever_ they were; and she'd sneaked off behind his shoulders and slept with his past self because she couldn't deal with what she felt – but if he wanted to let bygones be bygones, she surely wasn't complaining. "Really," she repeated. "I'm sorry. It was – it wasn't you. It was all wrong."

And she leaned back against him resting her head against his shoulder, his arm coming to rest around her waist after only the briefest hesitation.

"Are we okay?" she asked, after a while; and he didn't say anything, only nodded, mumbling softly against her hair.

She'd take it.

("_When you say all wrong," he asked her, once they were finally, safely back and everything was sorted out – and sounding way to casual for him to be anything but deadly serious. "What exactly do you mean? Because I don't know how much you made me drink, Swan, but I have to say that usually –" _

_She only laughed, rolling her eyes. "I didn't mean _that_," she informed him, chuckling a little because he could be such a _guy_. "I mean, there was alcohol involved but it was pretty good, I guess," and there she paused, glancing at him from under her eyelashes, a coy smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "Of course, it's not like I have actual basis for comparison with… not drunk you."_

_"__Of course," he agreed, smirking back at her. "What a shame."_

_"__We should get on that," she suggested - _

_and, eventually, they did.)_

* * *

**Note**: again, I had feels about this particular AU scenario. Just FYI, the past!Hook canon divergence is ridiculously popular on tumblr, so if you liked this you can definitely find more fics about it - though most of them are less feel-heavy and more smutty, but that's a great thing :P


	5. Glass Around Your Heart (CA Fusion)

**I Dwell in Possibility **

* * *

**Hya.** So, I've been wanting to do a Winter Soldier AU since I saw the movie, but a big inspiration for this was an awesome graphic I saw _somewhere _over at tumblr – a graphic that now can't seem to find again, sadly. If you know who made it, please let me know so I can credit it. Title from _Babel_.

* * *

**5\. Glass around your heart **

_[3. Sleep]_

He'd seen the blonde woman before.

He was sure of it, somehow, the way he was sure of few other things in his life – so few things, and yet so precious because of it. He knew that the sun rises in the east and settles in the west; how to fly a plane and how to pull a trigger; he knew a mission must always be completed and he knew that sometimes he remembered things he shouldn't –

but that never lasted for long anyways.

He knew what his face looked like in the mirror, and that once he'd had one had where the metallic contraption now was, but he couldn't remember what had happened to it. He knew how to fight and how to hide and how to kill; but he couldn't remember where he'd come from.

He didn't know what his name was.

_Kirill_, they'd called him at times, his handlers and partners and the young recruits he helped train, but he knew, somewhere deep behind him, that it _wasn't_ his name – it just sounded like it; the way he was never the same man from a mission to the other, but his face looked the same every time.

The woman though, he knew her. There was something familiar in the way her blonde hair swung around her shoulders, in the curve of her lips, the way her back had arched before she'd jumped, and –

_she's your mission_, they told him. _You mission_.

And a mission must always be completed.

_[1. Inertia]_

Sometimes, when he woke, he knew more than he had before falling asleep.

They'd explained it to him once – Pyotr, a laboratory tech he'd known so long ago, had once made an example using a dictionary. _That's one long ass book_, _Kirill,__my friend_, the man had said, even if they'd never been friends at all. _If you need to look up something, you can't read it all – too much information to handle, right? You just look for what you need, and ignore the rest._

And so sometimes he knew too much, the streets and roads of a city he could've sworn he'd never visited, languages he'd never learned and people long dead – and sometimes the memories were taken from him, stored in some safe corner of his mind where he couldn't find them again.

Not that he bothered trying to recall what was said and done – and gone, most likely, just like everyone he'd even known.

(Two sleeps later, and he never saw Pyotr again. They told him he'd retired and gotten married; but for all he knew the man could've been buried in a ditch somewhere with a bullet between his eyes, and he would've never known the difference.)

_[4. Flowing]_

There were nights when he dreamed. Some of the dreams he remembered, some he did not; and it had nothing to do with whatever had happened to him – it was just the way it was. Some dreams were worth remembering, some weren't.

Not that it mattered; he'd been trained to ignore them either ways.

(But some of the dreams were of a blonde girl in an orphanage, and the way she'd gone bleach white when he'd said, _they've got too many people, you'll get fostered out soon enough_ – and a man called Liam, who'll stepped in and said, of course she can stay with us.)

(There was so much brightness in those dreams, strands of golden hair that would escape from a neat braid, stray locks shining in the sun like a cascade of gold; and the way her eyes would lighten up when she smiled; and a number, _nineteen_.)

(_I've got my pilot licence. I can do anything a man can do_. And better, he added that last part in his mind, and the voice sounded like his own.

_But of course you can, sweetheart. Believe me, I've heard that before, sometimes you've just gotta tell them, to fuck off. _That was another woman's voice, older and more mature. _Tell you what, girl, if you volunteer, we can text the formula on you before we try it on your boyfriend over here. To piss off the brass._)

(He'd never been a patriotic man, _before – _hell, he'd made a point of keeping his accent only to annoy his teachers growing up – but Liam had, for some strange reason; and after Liam's death he'd left his job at Lucas's and joined the army without a second thought.)

(Women weren't allowed in the army, of course, to Emma's great disappointment. She'd always hated being told that she couldn't do something, especially on account of her gender – _I thought they needed everyone to do our part?_ she'd scoffed one day. She ended up in the Auxilary Corps when they were first established, and later on she met Sarah Lucas, Killian's old boss, scientist and engineer and one of the minds behind the Super Soldier project.)

(_Nineteen_, he told her, _nineteen nineteen nineteen_. When she would be nineteen he would be twenty going on twenty-one, just the right age to get married. _I'm going to marry you someday_, he'd said when they were nothing more than children, as if it was a foregone conclusion, _when you turn nineteen. _

Emma was eighteen years and ten months old when Liam Jones died in Pearl Harbor; when he joined and then later she did and one experiment went wrong but another went horribly right and –

_no one's gonna say you can't do things anymore because you're a girl, Swan_, he'd told her with just the barest hint of bitterness, because it was supposed to be him in her place, getting shoot at, and he should've been the one protecting her; but Emma had never needed anyone to protect her but herself .)

(_Take my hand, I've got you, I've got you – I love you_

And then the cold; so much cold. Cold and pain.)

That was what he dreamed of, at night; and sometimes he remembered and sometimes he didn't – but they were only dreams, and he'd never cared much for dreams anyway.

The mission was all that mattered.

_[2. Awakening]_

When they fished her out of the frozen water Emma was sleeping; and when she woke up in a room she didn't recognize, the world had gone on without her, thrived and suffered and changed as she wasted away, forgotten.

There was a girl in the room, looking strangely familiar – something about the way her eyes twinkled with excitement, fingers tapping lightly on her chin, long chestnut hair curled at the ends bouncing slightly against her chest.

"So," the girl said, once they'd gotten all the world-shaking, life-altering revelations out of the way. "I'll go on a limb and guess you must be feeling terrible… can I do anything to help? Get you anything?"

"I'm Ruby, by the way," she added, giving Emma a nod of her head. "I'm Ruby Lucas. You knew my Granny – she talked so much about you, you know."

"Right." Emma heard herself say. _My Granny_ – it was so strange to think of Sarah Lucas as anyone's wife, and mother and grandmother; and now she was dead. "Right," she repeated. "I think I'd like to be alone, now."

When Ruby left the room, she cried.

_[5. Ever After]_

He'd seen the blonde woman before.

He'd seen the blonde woman before, he was sure of it –

but then he went to sleep and when he woke up he couldn't remember _why_ he'd remembered anymore – but he knew he had, and knew that the memory had be taken away.

Like a dictionary. Wouldn't want to waste any time reading useless pages, now, would we?

(He didn't know what his name was, only that it had been taken away from him.)

She was the mission, and the mission must always be completed and orders must always be followed but he wanted to see her face _one last time_ before –

And he knew that the sun rises in the east and settles in the west and how to hunt and hide and kill, and if sometimes he remembered things that he shouldn't, it never mattered because he would forget soon enough anyway; but _she_, he didn't want to forget.

They fought again (_again_?) and her eyes, he remembered her eyes. They fought and he almost won except that he _couldn't_ – that something _twisted_ inside of him and he just _had to stop_ and –

When she hit him in the face he didn't even notice. She'd been aiming for the head but missed, her blow landing on his mask instead; and when he brought his good hand up to the burning cut on his uncovered chin, her gaze followed him and she _froze_ – eyes wide, staring at him as if she'd seen a ghost.

"Killian?" he _felt_ her say, more than heard, a _desperate_, breathless sigh.

It was a whirlwind of emotion – the shape of her lips, the sharp hitch in her breath, _that look_ in her eyes, disbelief and horror and _hope_ all together as one. And then came the memories, bright flashes of faces and places and voices; and the sound of her laughter, so full and lively, and reminded him of golden cornfields in the light of the setting sun, red poppies and purple lavenders of a summer long gone.

"Is that –" his throat was so dry; he had to stop to swallow. "Is that my name?" he managed to ask, clumsily, a low whisper among the noise and destruction, everything forgotten but the two of them.

"Yes," she let out, something _softening_ in her eyes. "Yes, I think it is." And then. "I'm Emma,"

"It's been such a long time."

* * *

**Note: **this is seriously all over the place. Sorry about that - I had to rewrite this about three or four times, changed the POV and the style and it somehow kept getting longer and longer and was nowhere close to being done. In the end I had to cut pieces and summarize the rest and it literally broke my heart. Also, yeah – Ruby is Iron Man, because reasons.


	6. And Heaven, Too (Soulmate AU)

**Short, pointless ficlet because why not. **

* * *

Emma was five years old the first time she learned what soulmates are, thanks to her enthusiastic first grade teacher, on the very first day of school. Most of the other kids had known already; a few were even born to soulmate couples with matching symbols on their bodies. To Emma, it had been a revelation. To know that there was someone out there, made just for you – it sounded almost too good to be true.

As it turned out, it _was_.

Her eighth foster family was an older lady, Ms. Claudia, and her young niece. Her new forster mother had been married, once, and her husband had borne the same mark as she did. It hadn't lasted. _It's more complicated than that_, she'd told Emma once; and that was how Emma learnt that life is messy and complicated, and being made for each other is no guarantee for an happy ending.

Emma had a cigarette burn on her left wrist, dark and coarse at the touch and almost perfectly rounded – right next to the thin serpentine line of her soulmark; and she couldn't help but think how _hilarious_ that was, until the day it wasn't anymore. She ran away on a winter morning, because she was so _done_ with it all, and no one would care anyway; and life went on.

Neal's mark was just plain _odd_, some sort of shape that looked vaguely like a crescent moon, so different from the stylized symbols with the sharp corners Emma was used to seeing on everyone else. Then again, her own mark looked pretty weird, too, so she supposed she really hadn't much room to talk. Neal himself was _wonderful_, in the way that he was everything she needed; and for the first time, she was well and truly happy.

Who the hell needed a soulmate, anyway?

When Henry showed up on her door the night of her twenty-eighth birthday, Emma couldn't help but notice that the kid's – her son, her freaking _son_ – mark was pretty unusual, too. As it turned out, later on, it was an Enchanted Forest thing, images instead of words. Her parents – and that would never be _not_ weird – with their matching arrowhead, and Graham's print, Ruby's circle and August's star. It was a strange thought, and not one Emma was all comfortable with.

_Doesn't this mean_, she'd half-asked, half-accused David, _ that falling in love with someone from a different realm is impossible?_ So much for fairytale characters and their happy endings, she thought; because however the thing with Neal had ended, they'd been really happy for a while, and –

and then, of course, it turned out that Neal was as much of a storybook character as they all were, and Emma didn't quite know how to deal with _that_. Of one thing she was sure; she'd never needed a soulmate in the first place, and now she was quite sure she didn't want one, either.

The first time Hook saw her mark it was on the return trip from Neverland; he winced and bolted – literally bolted – and Emma didn't know what to make of _that_. He'd admitted to kissing her in front of her parents and said _things_ that got her confused and dazzled and almost _hopeful_, and now this.

He avoided her after that, and they were almost in Storybrooke by the time Emma went to seek him out because _damnit_, she needed to know. "Do you know him?" she straight-up asked him, and Hook blinked.

"Who?"

"My mark," Emma said, impatient. "Whoever matches mine. You know him." It had to be a _him_ – she knew herself well enough for that – and if Hook of all people had known him, there was a good enough chance her soulmate was dead. _Good riddance_.

He paused, licking at his lips, and Emma's eyes fell on _his_ soulmark, because, honestly, it's not like he was trying to keep it covered anyway. Hook's soulmark was on his collarbone, odd, sinuous lines could be that reminded Emma of the flowing of the waves in the ocean, and _of course it would_.

"I used to," he said, eventually; and Emma had to left out a breath because here it was, her faceless soulmate was a real person, and she wasn't sure she was ready for that. "I can't offer many details, though," Hook continued, and _thanks god_. She'd never felt more relieved in her life.

"That's fine," she said, maybe too fast. "I'm not… big into soulmates. Keep your details." And then she was the one running away, and he didn't not go after her.

He seemed to go out of his way to _avoid her_ after that, to Emma's extreme curiosity. It didn't seem much like him – to pursue her with such determination, only to stop once he'd realized she had another man's mark. As if he'd been expecting any different. It was strange and maybe even a little _disappointing_ –

but then everything went to hell again, and Emma just _forgot_.

She forgot _everything_; and by the time she remembered, there was already a new crisis brewing, and after that there was the portal, and after that –

It's not long into their time-travel adventure that Emma found herself where she'd never expected to be – in a _tavern_ that seemed straight out a Renaissance Fair, flirting shamelessly with a version of Killian Jones that is so much more _Hook_ than the man she'd met ever was.

And then he was carrying her back to his ship like a scene out of some movie – because no one had ever, ever did something like this for Emma Swan before, at any degree of inebriation – his right hand cradling her head, left arm under her legs, her head against his chest; and that was when she _saw_.

Hook's soulmark, the one she'd seen so many times before, was almost completely faded, black dwindling into pale grey. It looked like an old tattoo, some part of registered – and behind it, neat as ever, was a single, curved line, in a shape Emma knew by heart. It was, she realized with a wave of panic, the same mark she'd seen on her hand day after day for thirty years.

And that was why she let him kiss her, later, the past ghost of the man who loved her so _desperately_ – because in some small corner of her mind she couldn't help but entertain the thought of _what if_, and how could it be _with him_, if she only let herself.

Emma somehow managed to compose herself, and act for the rest of the evening as if she hadn't just gotten one of the biggest shocks of her life. She didn't say anything as Prince Charles led his Princess Leia twirling around the ballroom; and she didn't say anything as they watched Snow burn, only to find out that maybe there was still hope for a happy ending after all.

It was only later, when everything was said and done – Snow White and her Prince Charming reunited for the briefest of moments, and his all-too-satisfied whisper, _must run in the family_ – and that was when Emma raised her head to look at him, trying to keep her voice as casual as possible. "So, that soulmark of yours," she began; and one look was all she needed to realize that he knew that she knew, because he brought his hand to his chest to cover the mark all of a sudden, and let out a long sigh.

"Bloody _hell_," he said; sounding much like a child finding out that Santa is not real, and Emma would laugh if she weren't, well, absolutely _mad_ at him.

Hook closed his eyes, brought one hand to scratch behind his ear. "That's…." he paused, let out a long, trembling breath. "That's got nothing to do with you, love. I suppose I'm not _big into soulmates_ either," he gave her a bashful little smile at that, and Emma suddenly found it hard to be quite so angry anymore. "So I've had it covered every few years or so since, well, forever."

She almost wondered what _forever_ meant – if it had to do with Milah, or was something different altogether – but she couldn't shake the question hovering at the edges of her mind. "Were you ever going to tell me?" Emma found herself asking –

because how _dared_ he, coming around acting like a lovesick fool, destroying all the walls and layers she'd put together over the years, with such _easiness_, as if things were that simple, as if he would never go away leaving only ruins and ashes in his wake.

His hesitance was all the answer she needed, but then he rolled his eyes at her, completely ignoring her glare. "Oh, come _on_, Swan," he said, completely ignoring her glare. "As if you wouldn0t have run like hell in the other direction if I'd told you."

And Emma wanted nothing more than deny him the satisfaction of being right, for once, but he knew her _so damn well_ – and when had that stopped being annoying, and become something she actually _liked_?

"I wouldn't have!" she said anyway, if only for the answering look she was sure to receive – exasperated and amused, as she'd expected; but there was such _fondness_ in those blue eyes, and it was almost overwhelming just how _loving_ that look was.

"Okay, maybe I would have," Emma amended, getting a knowing smirk in response. "But…" and there she paused, confronted with the sheer _enormity_ of what she was going to say, "I'm not running _now_, am I?"

(And when she kissed him, later, it meant _so much_ _more_ than it had the first time around. It was acceptance, fully and completely, of all the things they were and could have and everything they could ever be; and possibilities and hopes and new beginnings.)

(And maybe, deep down, love.)

* * *

**Yep, I'm well aware that CS AU week ended a while ago. I'll keep posting AU one-shot here, so watch this story if you're interested, and feel free to prompt me anything, either here or tumblr - username _justoldlights_.**


	7. Anthem (Supernatural AU)

**7\. Anthem**

So, I have to say that I was really sick and really, really high on meds when I wrote this. Might be messy and confused and all over the place, but I swear it did make perfect sense when I wrote it. Also, inspired by Season 4 of Supernatural so... might be somewhat blasphemous. _Kind of_.

* * *

there is a crack in everything  
that's how the light gets in  
_ – anthem_, leonard cohen

* * *

Emma died, and went to hell.

It's shouldn't have been much of a shocker; after all, she'd always known she'd end up there.

(_Girls who tell lies go to hell_, Ms. Davis had said to her once in first grade, the time Emma had finally gathered the courage to tell someone, _anyone_, just how mean Charles got when he drank. But her foster father was an upstanding member of the community and Emma just an orphan girl, and there hadn't been much to be done.)

(_Good girls go to heaven_. _You want to go to heaven, don't you?_ Sister Margaret had told her in sixth grade – that pious, kind soul who wouldn't believe a bad word of anyone, not even that Michael Travis _had_ shoved her, and that was the only reason why Emma had punched him where the principal could see.)

(_Sluts like you, they burn in hell_. That had hurt the most; it hadn't been Emma's fault that Mr. Hardin was a dirty _pig_, and that stupid cow of his wife should've known better than blame sixteen-year-old girls for her husband's faults. That had been the last straw; she'd run away and never come back, and good riddance to them all.)

She'd stopped believing then, in good deeds and guardian angels and anything at all; but she'd never doubted hell was real, not even for a moment – because bad things happened to good people, and that had to be the worst thing of them all.

And then she'd died.

All in all, it had been worth it. She'd done it for Henry after all, did the right thing and gave the kid the _best chance_ she'd denied him back when he'd been born, when she'd done the selfish thing and decided to keep him, to bring him into a life that was nothing but heartache and pain.

(Emma died and went to hell and on the third month she rose again, waking up in a shallow grave with dust in her lungs and what looked like a handprint burned on the skin around her wrist, where her tattoo had been.)

Emma died and went to hell and on the third month she rose again, except that it had felt like so much longer – thirty years, or close enough. _Twenty-eight_, part of her mind couldn't help but remind her, and it all felt so unreal, that she of all people got to _come back to life_ of all things; orphan Emma Swan who'd never been special, or loved, never been anyone's first choice.

But she was there, hot sand under her feet and Henry only one phone call away – if she ever managed to persuade David not to kill her on sight anyway – and if life was good for once, well, Emma had no intention to complain.

Until the angel came along.

His name was Graham, and it didn't sound nearly as angelic as Emma would have expected. The angel himself only scoffed at that, making sure to tell Emma that he was using a name he thought it might _fit better into the human world_, all while shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking somewhat like an awkward tenth grader at prom. He was _hot_, Emma decided, looking like he could be a model – or some actor playing a lumberjack, with that hair and scruff – and that was definitely something she'd never expect she would think of an _angel_, especially since she'd never believed they actually existed until Graham had turned up.

"Do you do this often?" she asked him the second time he appeared from thin air on the passenger seat of her car, almost giving her a heart attack. "Rescue damned soul, and so on."

Next to her Graham put on an incredibly serious face, which wasn't much different from his normal face to begin with, shaking his head slowly. "This is my first time," he began, and Emma was clearly thirteen because she couldn't help but giggle. He just ignored her, and went on. "It has been done before, or so I heard, but the results weren't…. good."

Whatever _that_ meant.

They almost made it to Maine before he disappeared again, and it was a serious bummer, because Emma had _so_ wanted to introduce him to Mary Margaret – if there was someone who would appreciate meeting an angel of the Lord, it would be her kind-hearted friend.

David, for his part, was more suspicious. "And he didn't say anything else?" he asked, frowning.

"Nope," Emma confirmed, chewing on her potato salad. "Just that 'they' need my help with something, and I'll know it when it's time." She took another long bite – dinner at the Nolans' was always more than good – and it was a while before she spoke again. "That's really not very angelic of them, isn't it? I saved your ass from the burning pit, but that was only because I need something from you."

She added the last part in a whisper, because Henry _was_ in the house after all, even if sleeping, and the kid really had no need to know where exactly his mother had been these past few months; and David threw her another worried look.

"But do you think they could…" he paused, rubbing at his nose with one hand. "I mean, they wouldn't send you _back there_, right?"

The fork fell on her plate with a resounding clash, and her hands found the edges of her seat, tightening, until Emma was sure the tips of her finger must be completely white.

"Of course not," she said, voice sounding almost as fake as her smile felt, "David, those are _angels_. They're… they're the good guys, right?"

(Except not really, not always.)

(Emma found out _that_ soon enough, within days of meeting Ariel – Ariel who'd left the heavens for Earth, Ariel who'd disobeyed and been punished, and who loved so, _so_ much.)

(And she'd thought they were _supposed_ to be the good guys.)

Graham didn't show up for a while after that – as he should, if he had any sense – and life got almost boring, to Emma's great delight. She took on only a couple new cases, old-fashioned _normal_ cases, tracking down bail skippers and not demons, took Henry out for ice-cream and to the movies, even went dress shopping with Mary Margaret – and generally bashed in the utter _glory_ of simply not being dead.

That was about the time Killian Jones came swaggering into town in all his leather-clad, motorcycle-riding glory, and managed to turn Emma's entire world upside down with a series of well-placed comments – the first one being, _can I buy you a drink?_

Emma said yes, of course. Why shouldn't she? He was just plain gorgeous, with an all too familiar love-and-leave-'em attitude that spoke of easy goodbyes and no complications, and Emma had been all about enjoying life lately. So she said yes, making sure to drop the occasional _Christo_ into the conversation just to check the waters – after Walsh, she was _never_ doing the same mistake again – and before she knew it, she was talking more than she had in forever, as Alice came over with shot after shot of tequila. He just listened, intently, drinking every word as if it was the most interesting story he'd ever heard in his life – and later, Emma would remember thinking how there was a certain kind of freedom in being completely honest with people you'd never see again.

Oh, if only she'd known.

(She woke up the next morning, and she never quite realized that her journal wasn't in the same place she'd left it – until it was again, and Emma never noticed.)

She woke up the next day in her bedroom, head pounding as her phone beeped. It was only her alarm – there were no next texts from unknown numbers, no _Jones_ saved among her contacts. That was fine with her; Emma shrugged and went back to sleep and that was it – until the day Jones showed up on the aftermath of a particularly nasty shapeshifter attack somewhere in upstate New York.

_Literally_ the aftermath. The burying-the-bodies part of the job, complete with shovel and a conveniently desert patch of forest; and if she hadn't been so damn busy cursing under her breath, she'd definitely have heard him before he scared the _shit_ out of her.

"Whatever they're paying you," he started, and Emma all but jumped, "it's definitely not enough."

"This is –" _not what it looks like_, she started to say, before she registered exactly whom she was talking to. It wasn't a cop, or a random passerby, but someone she'd last seen in Storybrooke, someone who'd _just happened_ to show up when she was digging a grave – and Emma Swan didn't believe in coincidences.

"What the hell is going on?" she asked instead – not particularly witty, maybe, but it worked just fine. One hand went to her belt, where the gun was, but Jones didn't even react, merely raising an eyebrow.

"An underpaid job, looks like."

And now _this_ was weird. "What?"

"Well, you know," he made an airy gesture with one hand, and Emma tightened her grip on the gun's grip. "You don't look like you actually kill monsters out of the kindness of your heart."

He was right – Emma didn't do that, not anymore – but she could recognize a distraction when she saw one. "Who _are_ you?" she asked, pointing the gun at him – and Jones didn't even blink.

He just raised that eyebrow, _again_.

"Would you believe me if I say, _I'm an angel of the Lord_?" he asked. "Or did someone else use that line on you already?"

"They did," Emma confirmed, lowering the gun and bringing her left hand to her jeans pocket, eyes trailed on Jones's, trying to keep him distracted. "But you know one thing about me?" she said. "I've got a superpower."

"Oh?" he said, politely, the effect just slightly ruined by his grin. "Do tell."

Emma's fingers curled around her flask, unscrewing the cork. "I can tell when someone is lying," she smiled up at him, and saw Jones's eyes go wide for a second. "And you are."

"Well, _former_ angel," he amended, shrugging, and –

_Truth_.

– and that was all the distraction Emma needed. She took a step back, throwing the flask's content towards the man in front of her, and Jones –

He winced as the holy water came into contact with his skin, fizzling, but he didn't burn or cry out like a demon would. He _glared_ at her instead, looking for all the world like a petulant child. "That bloody _hurt._"

("So," he added after a while. "How about we have a chat?")

* * *

**Keep sending prompts my way! Either here, or at tumblr - username ****_justoldlights_****.**


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